


tremor

by blueprintofyourpast



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Michonne (Walking Dead), BAMF Rick Grimes, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings, Grief/Mourning, Grimes Family 2.0 (Walking Dead), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Carl Grimes, Re-upload, Some Sort of 'What If?' Fic, Takes Place After 5x11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23261374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueprintofyourpast/pseuds/blueprintofyourpast
Summary: “You two were close?”“We went through some stuff.”Morgan gives a nod and it’s clear as day that he knows.He knows that this is about more than having been forced to survive on the road together. This is about hearing Carl’s laugh for the first time in ages. It’s about being told to rest for another day. It’s about Big Cats and soy milk, about stale M&Ms, a broken shaver, and a hideous cat sculpture.It’s about sitting around campfires and bathing in companionable silence. It’s about mourning a friend, yes, but it’s also about straining the truth and making it bearable....Or: An AU in which Michonne was separated from the group hours before they made it to Alexandria. Rick is desperate, literally out of his mind with grief - but maybe it's not too late for him to find his friend and bring her back home.[RE-UPLOAD]
Relationships: Carl Grimes & Rick Grimes, Rick Grimes & Michonne, Rick Grimes/Michonne
Comments: 3
Kudos: 65





	1. the road

She’s gone and it’s hot outside, too hot for the crickets to chirp through the night. With his back hunched, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his fingers anxiously tapping at his empty belt holster, Rick Grimes blinks rapidly.

He’s sitting on the porch, watching the neighbourhood – the surrounding houses, the neat front yards, the pond, the moon, the walls – and he comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t need this. He needs something else. He needs to stop feeling like his skin is about to cave in, like this is it. Because it isn’t. _It isn’t._ It can’t be.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and thinks about his people, his family. He thinks about the way Abe had his arms around Rosita and how his snoring wasn’t as loud as one might expect. He thinks about Tara and Noah, about Eugene, who was sprawled out on the floor like a pale starfish, his thick limbs taking up way more space than necessary. He thinks about Father Gabriel and how he tossed and turned and how he clung to his tattered Bible.

He thinks about Sasha, her sleeping figure curled into a ball in one of the corners, about Carol and Daryl, who – even in their sleep – seemed to gravitate towards each other. He thinks about Glenn and Maggie holding each other tightly, about Carl and Judith resting side by side, their faces hidden in the darkness. He thinks about the empty couch in the middle of the room.

“Fuck.”

He thinks about Deanna and her kind eyes. Her mother-like charm and her delusional mind- set. He thinks about the dark, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in her living room, the faint scent of tobacco and mulberry, and the lens of the video camera staring right through him and coercing him to share his nightmares with an over-enthusiastic stranger.

No, wait.

Deanna isn’t over-enthusiastic.

She’s _insane_ , she’s a fucking lunatic. Otherwise she wouldn’t talk about crops, solar panels, and community spirit. Otherwise she wouldn’t act like this world didn’t go to shit when people started tearing each other apart with bared teeth and claw-shaped hands, growling and snarling like sick, starved-out animals.

The dead are roaming the streets, the cities, the woods, and the fields. They’re at war with the living – with former friends and lovers – and here’s Deanna with her ridiculous optimism.  
Yeah. She’s insane and her people are insane, too. They’re cannon fodder, that much is clear.

“Stop it.”

And it’s not fair: they’re here – _for now_ –they’re safe – _for now_ – they’re catching their breath – _for now_ – and she isn’t, she can’t.

She’s out there and she’s alone because of him. That’s what Carl told him this morning before he stepped out of the car, scooped Judith up into his arms and left Rick staring after him, speechless, hurt, and deeply ashamed because it’s the truth. If it weren’t for him, she would’ve made it.

“ _Stop._ ”

He doesn’t.

It’s no use.

He can feel it coming.

He can feel his face grow hot and his pulse quicken. His vision starts to blur and he’s shaking his head to chase away the vicious harbingers of a panic attack. _It’s no use._ Something’s clawing at his chest and holding his throat in a vice grip, squeezing the air out of his lungs and bringing his sweat glands to a boil, and there are black spots dancing in front of his eyes, there’s a prickling sensation stabbing at the back of his neck, and there are raw, raucous sounds crawling out of his mouth, and he _hastostop,hehastostop,hehastostop,hehasto–_

.

.

.

Back then – before he almost slept through the apocalypse – he used to love that time of the day when the sun would hunker down between the russet rooftops of the neighbourhood. He would watch it with Lori from the widow of their bedroom, and they would marvel at the bright streaks of fierce red and blazing orange invading the sky and taking it by force before morphing into a midnight-blue sea, dark and bottomless and crowned with the silver glimmer of tired stars. It used to be a short but welcome distraction from the obvious strain in their marriage. A brief truce, a few minutes of peace.

Now everything is different because his house is gone, his wife is gone, and he is on the road again, nervously squinting at the last rays of sunshine pushing through the sparse treetops like walkers pushing through doors and windows and fences and everything that used to keep his people safe.

He’s riding pillion, occasionally peeking at Glenn yet anxious to keep his main focus on the rear-vision mirror with his jaw clenched and his brows furled.

“This is my one of my favourite shots. We took it at dawn, from one of the guard towers. You see the vegetable beds? We want to broaden the range because some of our people have started to crave artichokes,” Aaron says with a lopsided grin and he wants to punch him in the face all over again, “Maybe we’ll be lucky in a few months.”

Unsure if he should either scream or break out into hysterical laughter, he finds himself exhaling through his nose when his glance shifts over to Michonne and the hint of a smile that’s tugging at the corners of her mouth, the hint of a smile so rare it brings his anger to a halt for a moment and suddenly, he starts to wonder if she – once they’ve reached Aaron’s community – will be able to smile more often.

He’s pretty sure that would like that.

In fact, he would like that a lot.

“Rick.”

The alarmed sound of her voice pulls him out of his trance. He turns around, but before he has the chance to react, before he has the chance to tell Glenn to stop the car, before he has the chance to do so much as breathe, it’s already too late.

.

.

.

The man in the mirror is not him. Or maybe he is. Maybe he just had to tear off the mask that has been stitched to his skull to recognise that used to hide underneath for so many years: hollow cheeks, puffy eyes, and a vacant expression. Maybe the real Rick Grimes has always looked like death personified.

His hair is greasy and matted, his face covered in dirt, dust and a ragged, caveman-like beard. He’s not too shocked to see that he lost an unhealthy amount of weight, but he’s afraid to inspect his teeth. Judging from the stale taste in his mouth, there isn’t much hope left.

“Dad.”

He whips around to find his son standing in the door frame with Judith perched on his hip. The disgust in Carl’s eyes is tangible, but Rick is frozen with relief. He didn’t think he’d ever be addressed as 'Dad' again.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he croaks, his voice nothing more than a ghost of what it used to be.

“Nothing,” he says, “You were staring into space.”

“Where are the others?”

“Outside exploring the neighbourhood,” Carl answers with a small shrug before turning on his heel and trudging away, “I’m going for a walk with Judy.”

He grits his teeth.

“You want me to come with you?”

“No.”

And with that, Carl is gone.

As frustration begins to swell in his stomach, he somehow finds the strength to free himself from the fetters of his stunned rigour, and wills himself to follow his son, but Carl is already out of sight and when he decides to leave his son be and go back inside, he hears a bell-like voice ringing through the air, and he tilts his head in suspicion as he watches a petite, blonde woman jog up the veranda steps.

“You must be one of the new guys,” she starts off, cheerfully stating the obvious whilst taking in his sordid appearance and then opting to just go for it and hold out her hand towards him, “I’m Jessie.”

He continues to stare at her.

“Um... well, I hope you had a pleasant first night?” when he still doesn’t say a word, she diverts her gaze and throws her arms around her shoulders with a wobbly laugh, “Do you need help with anything? I heard you brought some children with you.“

“They’re mine.”

The steel is back in his voice and he starts to back away slowly, both overwhelmed and highly irritated by the cruel familiarity of her demeanour. This isn’t real. This is a nightmare and he has to wake up. He has to wake up _right now_.

“Oh... okay... uh... that’s great. You see, I have two sons. Ron and Sam. Maybe your kids would like to –“

“No,” he scoffs, sneaking his hand behind his back and blindly fumbling for the door handle, the corners of his mouth stretching into a panicked grin.

“Are you – a-are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want me to –“

“ _No._ ”

Another scoff and he’s finally wrapping his hand around the door handle, finally stepping inside. She’s about to open her mouth again when he shuts the door in her face.

_This isn’t it._

He knows that – he does – and he slides down to the floor with his face in his hands, willing himself to get out of here, to get back. Back to the church, back to the barn, back to when she was still with him, when she would keep his demons at bay and sit down next to him for a few minutes, so they could talk about food or ammo or nothing at all.


	2. the stain

She’s gone and every waking moment at Deanna’s party is a fucking nightmare. Back at his place, he ends up scrubbing up his right hand, picking and dabbing at the letter A with his fingernails until his skin is sore. There’s a hot pain throbbing behind his eyeballs, accompanied by raging tears and furious sobs, and he inhales sharply as a new surge of sudsy water spills over the fresh wound, gnawing at his nerve endings and setting them on fire.

“Why are you still out there?” he growls as he dries off his hands and leaves light red spots on the crisp white towel, “What the fuck is taking you so long?”

He’s talking to himself again.

He’s about to lose his fucking mind.

He makes his way downstairs and straight to the kitchen where Carol is busy packing up the rest of her belongings. A cake mould, a measuring cup, a couple of tinged silver spoons. She’s about to move into her own house, successfully pissing off Daryl by doing so.

“Evening, Constable-To-Be.”

Within the span of a few days, Carol has become a completely different person: she’s wearing pastel sweaters, beguiling the ladies from the pantry, and baking chocolate chip cookies. When she finally turns around to look at him, there’s a sweet, syrupy smile plastered on her face. It’s a smile that doesn’t match her hard eyes.

“You look like hell,” she goes on, zipping up her backpack before crossing her arms and leaning against the counter, “Here’s a tip for you: take a shower, get rid of that horrible beard, and _get to work_. We have to act soon.”

He can’t remember why they came up with it: their plan to take this place and shed blood if necessary. Carol is right – _of course she is_ – but he can’t brace himself up for going through with anything right now, so he refrains from rolling his eyes and settles for a sigh instead.

“What do you want me to do?” he puts his hands on his hips, “Play along for a while and bite their heads off later?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can’t do that. Not when she’s still –“

“You can and you will. This has to stop,” she points at his right hand, her voice suddenly sheathed with ice, “These people are scared of you. They don’t like you. You have to make amends if you want to take this place. You have to assimilate. On the surface, that is,” it’s her turn to sigh, “Where’s Daryl?”

He shrugs. God knows where his brother is lurking about at this hour. With yet another sigh and a shake of her head, Carol straps on her backpack and pats his shoulder on her way out.

“Don’t get me wrong. I miss her, too. I know that you think you’re responsible for what happened out there and who knows? Maybe you are,” she says and her words hit him like stray bullets, making him flinch and fight for air simultaneously, “The thing is: we don’t have much time. We have to make sure that this place can be kept safe and we have to keep an eye on Dr Anderson, too. Apparently, he has a natural knack for beating up his wife and children, and it looks like Deanna has a natural knack for turning a blind eye to that matter, so I guess _we’ll_ have to take care of it,” she offers him a sad smile and he wants to hurl, “After that, no one’s gonna stop you, Rick. After that, you can grieve for as long as you want.”

.

.

.

He gets rid of the beard, he cleans up – quite well, according to Deanna. He puts on his uniform and they’re still scared of him. They still don’t like him, but he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t care less about their fearful gasps or how they scrunch up their noses whenever they see him making his rounds.

He’s doing what he’s told.

He’s assimilating, he’s playing along: he’s doing perimeter checks, he’s taking shifts on the guard tower, and he’s lying awake at night, brooding over that moment in the woods until he’s about to break under the weight of his guilt because all he has to do is close his eyes and then she’s there with him.

The way she moves – smooth and gazelle-like, powerful and unforgiving – and her perfect skin – anointed with the foul blood of her opponents. She’s slaying her way through an endless sea of roamers, beheading two of them in one go and lunging at the next one without batting an eye. She’s a force of nature, a woman made to thrive on this world, and then she’s gone.

Carl _hates_ him.

There’s no need giving voice to it because Rick already knows.

He took her away from him, took away his son’s best friend and fed her to the dead, and he looks back upon the prison and screws his face up into a sad grimace: he wasn’t happy back then, not in the slightest.

Still sick with grief over Lori’s demise, he would spend his days digging into hard earth. He would learn the ropes of his new profession, and sometimes he would pause for a moment and cast a glance at the gates, feeling composed and even a bit winged for knowing that a certain someone would find their way back home eventually.

He used to take her for granted, but now he doesn’t. Now that she’s gone, he can allow himself to realise that her presence has been a gift to him. And he should be grateful, but the greed that’s boiling in his veins – scorching, seething, and searing – keeps him in check.

“I mean, it’s just a stupid owl statue... it’s _nothing_ ,” the blonde woman – Jessie, the doctor’s wife – says with a self-deprecating smile, “But working on it kinda kept me busy, you know?”

Rick stares at her.

It’s something he became quite good at recently: staring at this woman and not really seeing her, listening to her soft voice and having no idea what the hell she’s talking about.

And it’s not that he doesn’t like her. He barely _knows_ her and she scares the crap out of him because she’s a ghost, a blurred memory that’s slowly emerging from a mire of all the painful mementos he locked up ever since Lori’s grave – his _home_ – was blown to pieces by a raving psychopath.

Lori.

She would’ve liked it here, given the fact that she always had a soft spot for escapism and illusory figments. She would console herself with impossible dreams and silently resent him for being the living proof that those dreams would never make a reality. This place though – it would’ve been a decent alternative. This place would’ve been good for her.

“I’ll look into it.”

Startled by his gruff tone, Jessie gives a mild jerk.

“I – I uh... thank you, Rick.”

He takes his cue to leave, bids her goodbye with a short nod, and attempts to withdraw from her garage when she grabs his arm. Her delicate fingers wrap around his bicep like a tourniquet and her pulse burns through the fabric of his jacket, turning him into a pillar of salt and forcing him to look at her as her skin starts to peel off.

Dark bruises and fist-sized lacerations flare up on her face, neck and arms. He didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to believe it, and now he does, now he has to. He takes a shaky breath, he finally gets it, and he wants to scream because this place... this place is –

“What the fuck is going on here?”

A third person enters the scene and he breaks away from Jessie’s grip. He cracks his knuckles and greets Dr Anderson with a crooked grin as realisation descends upon him, digs into his flesh, and pushes him back into the smothering arms of harsh anger and acrid distress.

.

.

.

He spins around to split the shrivelled head of a walker dressed in a shredded track suit, and he groans in disgust and plain annoyance when he pulls back and gets rewarded by a deluge of bits of blood and brain splattering onto his face.

“You good over there, old man?”

“Yeah. You?”

“You do realise who you’re talking to, right?”

A grin begins to tear at his face and takes a second to look at her, to watch her cut bodies in halves like it’s the easiest thing in the world. She’s a sight for sore eyes. She’s incredible. She’s strong, she’s ravishingly beautiful, and she knows how to get shit done.

It almost pains him to get back to it and face the next throng of walkers that’s already headed in their direction, but this is his life now. Out here, he’s fighting for his life, fighting for another chance to get back to his children in one piece, and fucking hell, he’s actually _enjoying_ it since it’s _her_ , who’s with him right now.

They’re doing this together and he wouldn’t want it any other way. He trusts her more than anybody else, and spending time with her – even when it’s all about slicing up walkers like loaves of bread – has become something he can’t help but crave for on a daily basis by now.

“Shit!”

His musings are choked off by the time he sees a particularly burly walker snatching a fistful of her braids and dragging her into the darkness and suddenly – just when he’s about to reach her, just when he’s about to haul off and drive the blade of his machete straight through the biter’s head – there’s a wall between them, a living, snarling, pitch-black wall, and he’s left behind screaming. He’s left behind pushing against them with all his might because he has to get to her, _he has to find her_ , but he doesn’t, he can’t.

He’s not sure about how much time has passed until Glenn and Aaron thrust themselves into his field of view. They pull him away and his face grows stiff with agony. She’s lost, she’s gone, and – no matter how hard he tries to break loose with his arms flailing, no matter how loud and often he cries her name – she won’t come back.

They spend five days combing through the nearby woods and towns with Aaron and he’s ready to fight them when they decide to move on to Alexandria, but then he looks at his daughter and he knows that this has to stop.

And now, about two and a half weeks later, he’s pacing around in his makeshift cell, his hand pressed against the back of his neck, the other one wrapped up in a sloppy gauze bandage. His knuckles are swollen, his fingers are twitching, and his body is shaking with rage.

_This place is a lie._

It should be an open community, but once you it stripped off its deceiving layers – the houses, the perfectly mowed lawns, the stone-flagged streets – you’ll find a twisted refuge for reckless cowards and combative drunks.

Nicholas, Dr Anderson, the whole fucking lot: They all tried to kill his family right from the start and he has to stop them. He can’t lose anybody else, not after Noah. Not after Michonne, who – technically – didn’t die at the hands of Deanna’s people but _because_ of them, because she wanted this place, because she wanted Rick, the kids, and the rest of the group to get here at all costs.

“What am I supposed to do now, huh?”

He’s losing it.

He’s alone and he’s in a blood-red daze.

He hates her for abandoning him, for letting herself get pulled out of his reach when he all he wanted for her was to stay a little longer, and if she could see him now, she sure as hell wouldn’t approve of the way he’s been handling himself lately.

No, she would set him straight again. She would kick his ass and he would end up thanking her for it. And then, she would tell him to let go of the fight and he would do so eventually.

In return, he would watch her drift away, watch her _assimilate_ and build a life of her own. And he would try to be okay with that. He would try not to lean on her too much. He would try not to suffocate her with his need to be around her all the time. He would try his best not to keep her from spreading her wings. He would try, but he probably – _most certainly_ – wouldn’t succeed.

“This is on you,” he grunts with his eyes shut; she’s gone – _gone, gone, gone_ – and it doesn’t make any fucking sense, “I’m gonna take this place and you can’t stop me, you can’t talk me out of it because _you’re not here_.”

He opens his eyes and rolls his aching shoulders. He makes for the front door, ready to face his trial, ready to take this place and be done with it. His head is full of violence as he draws his gun and bursts off into the night.


	3. the kiss

She’s gone and he’s facing the wall with Morgan, the giant herd of walkers only a few feet away from them. They’re bumping against corrugated iron, snarling and wheezing like they always do, and he’s about to _snap_ because this was supposed to be a dry run and now they’re here, going all-out to protect a community full of fucking amateurs.

Alexandria is _his_.

He took the place when he killed the doctor, when he shot him in the head at Deanna’s command and stared at the blood as it morphed into an obscure, crimson Rorschach card he’s still struggling to make sense of.

A cat, a bat, a pair of doves.

He doesn’t know.

“Can I ask you something?”

Morgan’s voice reminds him of an overstrung guitar string: always shaking, always stretched to breaking point, always tense and full of caution. He sounds like he’s about to cry any second, and that wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it? He lost so much. His wife, his son, everything.

He bows his head.

“Shoot.”

“Last time we met, when you came to my – where I lived,” he begins and Rick lifts his gaze carefully, “It wasn’t just you and your boy, right? There was a woman, too.”

“Michonne.”

Her name rolls off his tongue and he isn’t angry anymore. He just wants her back. He wants her here, at his side and in his house – _all the fucking time_. He wants her in a blue bathrobe with her locs wrapped in a towel on top of her head. He wants her relaxed and happy, discussing comic books with Carl during breakfast, and he wants her to hold Judith like she was born for it, like she was born to be a mother to his children.

“She didn’t make it?”

He wants her curled up on the couch, flipping through a well-thumbed paperback edition of _The World’s Wife_ and tapping at the rim of every page she turns with her index finger. He wants her to hide a smile by biting her lower lip whenever she comes across an exceptionally witty line, and he wants to watch her get lost in layers of black ink and wood sanding.

“No.”

He wants her in his bed in the early morning. He wants their legs entangled, her small frame trapped between his bare body and the mattress. He wants his face buried in the crook of her neck as he drowns in her scent. He wants her to weave her hands through his hair, so that he could tighten his embrace immediately, so he could grouse and murmur into her skin and ask her to stick around for a few more minutes. He wants her laugh to be soft and her lips to be warm against his temple.

Blinded by the cruel fantasy of his dear dead friend peacefully resting in his arms, he shakes his head and chides himself internally. Accepting her loss is hard enough. He should know better than to waste his time on made-up scenarios that will only turn him into a sad masochist one day. Yeah. He should stop while he’s ahead of going down that road.

“You two were close?”

“We went through some stuff.”

Morgan gives a nod and it’s clear as day that he knows.

He knows that this is about more than having been forced to survive on the road together. This is about hearing Carl’s laugh for the first time in ages. It’s about being told to rest for another day. It’s about Big Cats and soy milk, about stale M&Ms, a broken shaver, and a hideous cat sculpture.

It’s about sitting around campfires and bathing in companionable silence. It’s about mourning a friend, yes, but it’s also about straining the truth and making it bearable.

“I’m pretty sure she took one of my protein bars.”

“She did,” he remembers her nonchalant shrug – _the mat said ‘Welcome’_ – and he fails to hide a wry smirk, “And she’d look you square in the eyes and deny it to her grave if she were here.”

“Well, I guess that makes you a snitch,” Morgan declares, his bright grin effortlessly undermining his mock-serious tone before consternation takes hold of his face, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He clears his throat and looks up at the sky: it’s a spotless, powder blue tent stretched above his head, and it’s too fucking heavy.

And he’s greedy.

He’s greedy and desperate and he wants to shed his skin. He wants to tear it off inch by inch and offer it to her, so that she’d come back to life and grant him with more of her time.

“Yeah”, he sighs, “I’m sorry, too.”

.

.

.

Sometimes he’s back in the car. Sometims, he’s gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles become white and raw. Sometimes, they’re waiting for the gates to open and she’s sitting in the passenger’s seat, she’s right beside him, sensing his fears and soothing them when she covers his hand with one of hers.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”   
He nods it off and pretends to listen to the distant sound of children playing and people chattering when all he really does is relish the warmth that’s radiating from her palm and the unexpected feeling of calmness that comes with the soft brush of her fingertips against his skin.

_Calmness._

Such a strange, inoperable concept.

After all this time, after losing himself in a crazed rush of threnodial bitterness, after finding a home, after building it with his own hands and losing it within the blink of an eye, after Terminus, after Bob, Beth, and Tyrese, after all this death she brings it back to him with nothing more than a simple touch and a gentle squeeze, so he shoots a quick glance at his son and daughter, who are both resting in the backseat: Carl, an epitome of excitement and well-reasoned precaution as he looks out of the side window, and Judith, cooing and babbling in her sleep.

_They’re alright._

_They’re gonna be safe._

_You can smile._

Coming to the realisation that they _actually made it_ is enough for him to let go of the steering wheel and turn his upper body towards her.

Her smile is fulgent and he’s overcome by the urge to taste it, the urge to lean in and taste _her_ – if only for a few seconds before she has the chance to knock his lights out for disrespecting her boundaries – but her hand slumps into the space between them, and reality hits him like a punch in the gut.

“You’re not with me,” he says.

Her face falls and the spell is broken.

Carl and Judith are gone.

The blood – Noah’s blood, Reg’s blood, the doctor’s blood, _all the fucking blood_ – starts to rain down upon them. It’s pattering against the windscreen and rapping against the car top, unleashing a morbid rhythm mixed with the deafening chant of a thousand walkers, and it’s coating the windows with fat, carnelian brushstrokes and countless spots of amaranth red.

“I should’ve listened to you, to Aaron. I was wrong to insist on driving by night and taking another road,” he looks at her and the words keep tumbling out of his mouth; he has to tell her before it’s too late, “You’re not with me anymore and it’s my fault, and – and you gotta believe me when I say that I wanna fix this, but I can’t. _I can’t fucking_ –”

“Rick –”

He reaches out for her, clamps both of his hands around the back of her head, and pulls her close until their foreheads are touching. She’s his best friend and every fibre of her soul is beautiful, but she’s killing him because he’ll never get another chance to look at her and feed on her ability to calm him down and make him see things from a different, less narrow-minded perspective.

He’ll never get another chance to revel in her strength and kindness, to seek sanctuary in her boundless optimism and her unshakable faith in him.

“I’m so sorry.”

The rain grows louder and he can’t let go, so he closes his eyes and shuts out the violent throbbing in his chest when he cups her face and crushes his lips against hers.

There’s a fresh flood of fearful realisation bursting through his veins because it’s _her_.

_Of course it’s her._

Besides his son and daughter, she’s the only thing that makes sense in this fucked up world. Her tongue gently brushing against his lower lip and begging for entrance is the only thing that makes sense in this moment, so he lets her in and gets to know her in the sweetest, most personal way.

And it’s mind-blowing.

It’s everything.

Her lips are soft and pliable – just like he thought they’d be. He can’t help but whimper when she tilts her head just slightly, causing their tongues to clash yet again, but this time from an even more perfect angle. The sensation of her mouth accepting his sorrow and transforming it into something different – something bittersweet, something he’s willing to endure for the rest of his life if she’ll have him – sends a jolt through his body, and he never wants to wake up again.

He wants more – more time, more of this, more of her – and he wants her to feel the same way. He wants her to feel like this is how it was always meant to be, too.

.

.

.

_This is it._

The RV won’t start and they’re coming. Thanatos has risen and he brought his army with him: women and children, teenage boys and little old ladies, soldiers and criminals, murderers and priests. They’re vile creatures, hungry and half-naked as they stumble through the woods like new-borns, driven by one basic need: destruction.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon...”

Nothing.

He takes hold of his walkie and bites back a shout, his lips pressed against the dusty plastic casing, his fitful breathing cutting through the white noise.

“Tobin?”

Nothing.

“Daryl?”

Nothing.

“Glenn?”

_Nothing._

High on fear and grunting with frustration, he hurls the walkie across the RV and tries to gun the engine once again as visions of his son and daughter – beat up and bleeding, dead, _snarling_ – seize his mind.

_Fuck this._

He grabs his rifle and jumps over the body of one of his attackers, and as soon as his feet hit the ground, he starts to run.

He’s having a head start, but it’s scarce, it’s fleeting. They’re on his tail, dogging him with steadfast determination – after all, his heart is still beating, his blood is still dancing in his veins, and that alone makes him a rarity in this world. This world in which they’re bound to hunt down and swallow alive.

With his feet pounding the tarmac, the trees and bushes whizzing past him, and his lungs on fire, he lures them back home. He’s losing track of time, gallons of sweat pouring out of him and drenching his clothes. All he can do is run – _all he knows is how to run_ – and by the time he sees the walls spring up at the end of the road, he takes it even further.

“OPEN THE GATES!” he bellows, “OPEN THE FUCKING GATES!”

He flies through the narrow gap and falls flat on his face, skinning his nose and forehead in the process. There are people – Maggie, Morgan, and Carol – pulling him to his feet and telling him to calm down, but he pushes past them, his knees buckling, his muscles still in overdrive, trembling and jerking as if his whole body is connected to a power line.

“Where’s –”

He doesn’t have the time to utter out his question when a whir of blue, white, and coyote brown darts at him and tackles him back to the ground. Carl is shaking like a leaf, he’s sobbing and snivelling as Rick cradles him to his chest and gives free reign to his own tears.

“There you are.”

It feels like several hours have passed while they’s lying there, clinging to each other. By the time he’s allowed to at least get into a sitting position, he takes a second to share a thankful glance with his friends before he smooths down the lapels of his son’s crinkled flannel shirt. He reaches to his left, picks up his Sheriff hat, and puts it back on Carl’s head.

“You alright?” he asks and smiles in relief when he’s answered with a nod, “Judith?”

“Sh-she’s with Tara and the new doctor lady”, another sob, another attempt to choke back unstoppable tears, “I thought you were _dead_.”

“I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” Carl mutters under his breath whilst wiping at his face, “But can you do me a favour and _never_ do anything like that again? Me and Judy, we kinda want you to be around for the next years, you know?”

“Carl – ”

A string of shouts and curse words forces him to look back towards the entry where Tobin and Spencer try to fight off a male walker that seems to be stuck between the gates. It’s lean and pale and barely covered by what looks like the tattered remains of a dark blue Virginia Cavaliers hoodie, sneakers, and decrepit Bermuda shorts that probably used to be white at some point.

When the gates finally close, the blood-curdling sound of bloated flesh and brittle bones getting squashed by slabs of rusty metal echoes through the air. The walker’s torso snaps in half, causing its upper body to land on the ground with a wet _thud_ , and it’s its face that captures Rick’s attention immediately: it’s jawless.

Someone must have cut it off.

Same goes for its arms – they’re gone.

_Someone must have cut them off._

“It’s one of hers”, Carl says perplexedly, and Rick’s heart skips a beat.

With its bloody stumps sliding and slipping, the mutilated walker crawls towards him, and he can feel the corners of his mouth twitch as both hope and incomprehension begin bloom in his chest. A low chuckle drains off his lips because this is a sign, this is a miracle.

This is the most beautiful thing he has seen in very a long time.


	4. the rain

She’s gone and the rain won’t stop. A harsh gust of wind sets off a gruesome melody, causing shrubs to bow down before him as he fights his way through meshes of dampened undergrowth, the heavy scent of drenched foliage blocking his senses and the low grumble of a looming thunderstorm worming its way through the cold afternoon air.

Daryl is right in front of him, panting and cursing – just like Aaron, who’s bringing up the rear to cover their backs. They’ve been on the road for a week and a half now. They’re worn out and bone-weary, but they have to keep going. _He_ has to keep going. That’s what he promised Carl when he held him and tried to ease his pain with soothing words, when he had to stop him from yanking off his bandage in the middle of the night.

They’re tearing through the woods – pine cones scrunching and the wet ground squelching under their feet – and his pulse is pounding in his ears while a cataract of gloomy snapshots crashes down on him: twisted bodies – Alexandrians, Wolves, walkers – scattered over carmine streets, the ruins of the church tower snuggled between sheets of dented iron, and the dead staggering towards him with wide eyes and open mouths.

He remembers Deanna on her deathbed, digging her fingernails into his arm and telling him to look out for Spencer and the rest of the community.

He remembers Sam and Jessie getting mauled by the herd whilst screaming each other’s names.

He remembers Ron, his eyes shimmering with tears, his voice shaking and breaking, and his heaving chest giving birth to the bloodied cusp of Gabriel’s machete.

He remembers a gunshot.

He remembers Carl.

He remembers a white-hot flash of pain and fury clouding his field of vision as he grabs his axe and leaves the infirmary to take it out on them because they will never stop. They will never stop coming for his loved ones and in the end – despite all the blood and sweat he’s invested, despite sacrificing both his sanity _and_ his humanity to keep his kids alive – he’s powerless, _helpless_ against them until he whirls around to find his people and the people of Alexandria rushing to his side.

He flips through the last pages of his picture book and takes in the sight of bright, tangerine flames welling up on the pond’s surface. The rise and fall of Carl’s pale chest, Glenn and Maggie holding onto each other with cries of relief, Denise offering him an encouraging smile, Gabriel sitting down beside him at Carl’s bedside with a healthy Judith bouncing on his knee, and finally, the sight of Daryl and Aaron approaching him a couple of days later and volunteering to join him on is mad quest.

“ _Goddammit!_ ” Daryl yells, anger and frustration resonating in his scratchy baritone as he holds up his crossbow and signals for them to slow down, “The trail’s getting cold. Can’t see shit with all the mud... ain’t even sure if we haven’t lost her five fuckin’ minutes ago.”

“What do you mean?” Rick slurs through clattering teeth and comes to a halt as the wind whips around his neck and tears at his sodden shirt, jeans, and coat with a force that almost knocks him off his feet, “We can’t stop now!”

“Yeah, but we can’t run around aimlessly either, right?”, he slumps his shoulders and his doubtful expression causes Rick to curl his upper lip in disgust, “Look, man, we don’t even know if –“

“Oh yeah? We don’t know?” his tone is biting, downward spiteful, and he reaches into his back pocket to throw a small, wenge-coloured piece of cloth at his brother’s chest, “We don’t know _what?!_ ”

A part of him becomes oddly delighted about the way Daryl’s face contorts with shame after he catches the fingerless glove – it’s one of hers and Rick knows that because he knows the size of Michonne’s hands and the smooth texture of the leather that used to cover them by heart. They found it about half an hour ago at an entrance station near Front Royal and they came across some boot prints as well, wiling them southwest.

He drags a hand over his face.

She’s a fighter – a damn good one – but she’s not invincible and maybe it’s too late. Maybe she’s already dead, maybe she died when she lost that pet walker, and maybe she’s been wandering the land since then, looking for someone to sink her teeth in, someone to feed on. Maybe he’ll have to put her down. Maybe she won’t fight him because maybe she knows that André is already waiting for her.

_She had a son, you know?_

Carl’s words keep echoing in his ears and he forces his lips into a hard line. He _didn’t_ know. He always assumed it, but he never had the nerve to ask. He never had the nerve to ask about her three-year-old son, who used to be a handful until he slipped off the face of earth. He never had the nerve to ask why she used to avoid Judith at the prison and why she eventually came to love his children like her own.

Her and Carl, they would hit it off in record time and they would form a bond so special and exclusive that Rick would become a bit jealous every now and then – jealous of her because she happened to be an expert in the field of dealing with moody teenagers, and jealous of Carl because he was obviously Michonne’s favourite.

_She was a mother._

He stares at the pale line that’s wrapped around the base of his left ring finger. He doesn’t know when he first took notice of the absence of his wedding band – hell, he can’t even remember when, where or why he lost it. Probably when he was running back to the gates with a knot of biters on his tale, probably when he had to spend a whole night cutting them down with his axe, probably when he was roaming through an abandoned garden centre down in Culpeper, desperately looking for a clue regarding Michonne’s whereabouts.

Fact is, he doesn’t need a piece of jewellery to commemorate his dead wife, and if he took a moment to be honest with himself, he would gladly admit that he stopped grieving for Lori a long time ago – more precisely when he turned around and saw Carl and Michonne balancing on rusty train tracks with their arms spread and their mouths full of playful banter, their laughter leaping onto the light breeze to brush the tips of his hair and then head off to unknown territory.

“We gotta – we gotta keep going,” he says and when Daryl doesn’t answer, he turns to Aaron, his voice nearly drowned out by the pouring rain, “ _Please_.”

“Listen –”

“No.”

He shakes his head because he can’t take it anymore. The rain, the forest, the screaming wind and that sharp, high-pitched whirring sound pricking his eardrums – it’s unbearable.

“There’s a storm coming up,” Aaron tries again, the whirring sound chopping his words into two-syllable bits like a butcher’s knife, a sickle, a blade... a _blade_ , “We should get back to the RV. We can come back tomorr –”

“Shut up.”

“Rick –”

“SHUT UP!”

Snatching his axe off his belt, he barely takes notice of Aaron backing away with his hands held up in surrender. He’s too absorbed with the sound – the sound of a blade cutting through the rain-swept patter in one smooth motion – and next thing he knows, he’s jostling Daryl to the side.

“What the – wait! _Wait!_ ”

He doesn’t.

Once again, he’s scudding through the thicket, sprigs and icy droplets slapping his face and the thick sludge violently clutching at his legs. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because there’s another whir – there’s a _gasp_ – and he’s already sobbing when he shoves his way through the last row of trees and finally sees her.

She’s right there.

At the centre of the small clearing and surrounded by at least a dozen cadavers, she’s wielding her sword and decapitates the last walker that was just about to attack her. Her hair is all over the place and there’s a bulging, leathern postbag dangling off her shoulder. She’s covered in guts and mud, a grubby, white Henley shirt and saggy, olive-green army pants sticking to her shuddering frame.

His throat is clicking and disbelief thrums in his veins like a perpetual electric shock. His steps are tentative at first, but as soon as she turns around and blinks through the rain, as soon as she aims her sword towards him with a frightened growl, as soon as her dark and haunted eyes settle on him and light up with the faintest hint of recognition, he knows that this isn’t some evil trick his mind is playing on him.

Their weapons drop to the ground and he stumbles towards her. She sinks to her knees and he trips over his feet, and then he’s scrambling over the wet grass on all fours, a strained howl escaping his throat by the time he crashes into her.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he wraps his arms around her and brings one hand up to her nape to grasp at her loose braids, mirroring the way her fingers thread through the wet curls at the back of his neck, “I got you.”

Exhaling a shaky laugh, he presses his cheek against hers and savours the feeling of her breath rushing past his ears – _she’s alive_ – and for the fraction of a second, he’s torn between the urge to hold on and the need to pull away and look at her face, but she pries that decision out of his hands when her whole body goes slack.

“Michonne?” he draws back and gives her a light shake; her head falls against his sternum and his mind goes blank with dread as thunder roars above them, “Michonne?!”

“Rick!”

All of a sudden, Daryl appears at his side, firing arrows at the small herd of biters that’s squeezing past thick clumps of bushes at the other side of the clearing. Aaron’s there, too, sporting a small smile as he picks up Michonne’s sword and bag.

“She must’ve passed out,” he says and Rick nods whilst checking her pulse with his fingers trembling and his heart threatening to drive out of his chest, “We made it, now let’s go.”

.

.

.

Watching her sleep is a surreal experience, even though he did it almost every night when they were on the road.

Back then, he had found out that taking in her slumbering form would help him come down from the terror-induced high that kept him focused during the day. It’s surreal _now_ because has never seen her like this.

She’s wrapped up in a heap of blankets and she looks so small, so _fragile_ in the dim light of the infirmary. According to Denise, she’s not going to wake up until tomorrow and even though they put her into a pair of grey jersey pants and a thick sweater, she’s still shivering due to her hypothermic state.

Her lips were all but blue when they had to check her for scratches and bite- marks in the RV, and he remembers feeling sick to his stomach for taking off her clothes while she remained unconscious, but he also remembers getting crushed by relief when all he found was the shadow of a well-healed bruise clinging to her left hip.

“Dada!”

With her tiny hands pulling at the greying strands of his returning beard, Judith starts to squirm in his arms. It’s a sure sign that thankfully – probably... _maybe_ – tucking her in won’t turn into a battle of wills tonight.

“You ready to call it a day, sweetheart?”

She turns her head and reaches out for the bed.

“Miii!”

He doesn’t know how to react, but then he catches Carl and Daryl smiling serenely from the corner of his eye, and he breathes out a frangible laugh. What was he thinking? As if Judith would’ve forgotten the woman, who used to tell her bedtime stories about suit-wearing grizzly bears that were fighting for their territory against evil businessmen in the Great Courtroom of Mother Nature, or fairy-tales starring an old widower, who was so fond of the Pacific Ocean that he would spend every morning trying to woo her by writing love poems in the dark sand of Rialto Beach with the tip of his walking cane.

“That’s right,” he coos, “It took us a while to get her back and Denise says she needs to rest, so we should let her sleep a little longer, don’t you think?”

Judith looks at him with huge eyes, places both of her hands against his cheeks, and ends up squishing his face. Daryl doesn’t even try to hide his laugh.

“I’d take that as a 'Yes',” he grunts, looking very pleased and just a tiny bit ridiculous in that weird sleeveless-shirt-and-swimming-trunks combo he changed into a couple of hours ago, “I think I’m gonna hit the sack. You want me to take her?”

“Sure,” he hands her over carefully, and just as Daryl is about to leave, Rick clears his throat, “I’m sorry for how I was acting out there.”

“Nah, man, we wouldn’t’ve found her if it weren’t for you yellin’ at us,” he counters, smirking and peering down at Judith before he turns to Carl, “You comin’?”

“Give me a minute.”

The slight touch of uneasiness in Carl’s voice unsettles Rick. He was expecting him to burst with assuagement after he went to home to change his clothes, relieve Gabriel from watching over the kids, and spread the good news, but Carl would do nothing more than lower his torso in a deep exhale and nod a few times. And even later, when they were all gathered around her bed – when Maggie and Sasha did a terrible job at hiding their tears and when Glenn put a hand on his shoulder with a watery grin – Carl would look like he wanted to be anywhere but here in this room.

“Talk to me,” Rick offers quietly after Daryl has left.

Carl sighs.

“I wasn’t mad at you,” he declares firmly and turns to meet Rick’s gaze with clear, cerulean resoluteness, “I was mad at _them_ for taking her away from us, and I wanted to punish them, but I couldn’t, so I blamed it all on you, even though I knew it wasn’t your fault,” he pauses and lets his eye settle on the bed again, “And I’m sure she’s gonna whoop my ass when she finds out.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but she’s definitively gonna whoop _my_ ass for letting you talk like that.”

They share a small chuckle and Rick feels pride swelling in his chest as he takes in his son’s bandaged profile. Despite all the horrible things that have happened to him during the past months, Carl is still here, still fighting the fight and still winning.

“You wanna stay here and wait with me?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Dad.”

“Why not?”

A pale blush takes over Carl’s face, his upper eyelid drooping a bit as he emerges from his seat.

“I don’t want to scare her,” he mumbles and it’s one of the saddest, most ridiculous things Rick has ever heard.

“She would never –“

“I know that,” Carl says immediately, “I _do_ ,” his shoulders drop and he turns to the bed again, placing a hand over her sock-covered toes that are sticking out from under the sheets, “I’m still me and I know she’ll see that. Just – just let me be a coward for a while, okay?  
”   
It’s bullshit – _complete and utter bullshit_ – it’s not what he wanted to hear, it’s not how he wanted his son to feel about himself after having survived a fucking _shot to the head_ , and it’s breaking his heart, but he knows that he has to accept it for now, so he rises to his feet and pulls Carl into a hug that soon becomes too tight, but bristles with love and a silent promise.

“Okay.”

.

.

.

Sunlight sneaks past the sheer curtains and he wakes up, failing to hold back a pained groan. Over the night, the weight of the past days has settled comfortably on his shoulders. He has never felt so old in his entire life.

Right after Carl left, he started waiting for the dams to break, checking the innards of her postbag in the meantime, and nearly chortling at the sight of at least six tubes of toothpaste and an empty can of shaving cream as well as a bag of snack-sized Reese’s, a Ronson lighter, a small rope, a drinking bottle, a flashlight, and a handful of batteries.

As soon as she began talking in her sleep – she called out for Andrea to stop nagging about the weather and for someone named Terry to stop referring to her as his best friend’s lover – he could feel his face crumble with exhaustion.

He ended up crying hysterically with his hands fisted in her cocoon of blankets and his fingers digging into the cloth as if he was trying to keep her from disappearing again. He ended up crying for his children. He ended up crying for Lori and Shane. He ended up crying for Morgan’s wife and son, for Sophia, for Hershel and Beth, for all his dead friends and his friends who are still alive, for Deanna and the rest of the Monroe family, for Glenn and Maggie’s baby, for André and Mike, and for the woman he thought he had lost so many weeks ago.

“Hey.”

A light tug at his hair shoos away what’s left of his dreamless drowse, and just as her voice – rough and raspy from sleep and what Denise described as the aftereffects of a protracted pulmonary inflammation – registers in his brain, his head snaps up from the edge of her bed, almost fast and abrupt enough to give him whiplash.

She’s leaning against the pillows and her hand is resting at the side of his face, scratching the small space behind his left ear in the most soothing manner, and he watches small rills of tears forcing their way along her delicate features before they peter out somewhere beneath her chin.

Her brows are quivering and her lips are shaped like rose petals, exposing dimples and pearly white teeth when she gifts him with a tired smile that settles deep within her russet brown eyes.

“Hey,” he croaks.

Caught in ecstatic shock, he wraps his fingers around her wrist to feel her slow but steady pulse knocking steadily against his fingertips. He stares at her for a long moment and he takes the time he needs to realise that she’s not going anywhere.

He takes the time he needs to adjust to the small bursts of energy that kick and jump in his chest like the fiery sparks of a rocket flare. _She’s here to stay_ and he finally allows himself to answer her smile with one of his own.


	5. the vow

She's here to stay and today is a good day because today he's marching up the steps to the infirmary with the blazing sunset glaring holes into his back and giddiness scrambling his brain.

Today – after a week of commuting between his house, her bedside, and wherever his people needed him to be – he's going to take her home.

Not bothering to knock, he pushes the front door open, crosses the threshold and finds Denise rummaging through one of the supply cabinets in the exam room. She doesn't acknowledge his presence – probably because she's too busy muttering under her breath and calling herself an idiot for not remembering where she put that _goddamned bottle of Panadol_ – so he clears his throat, resulting in her to jump like a scared cat.

" _Jesus fucking Chri_ – oh, hey there," she finishes meekly whilst adjusting her glasses, "You're here to pick up Michonne?”

"Yeah," sucking his cheeks in to hide a grin, he comes to stand next to the slightly awkward woman, and squints at the cabinet that threatens to burst with labelled pillboxes, bottles of Sterillium and containers harbouring quantities of dressing material, rubber gloves and other medical utensils, "Anything about to run out in here?"

She shakes her head.

"I think we'll be good for a while. Don't know how they did it, but it seems like Glenn and Heath tore through an entire hospital on their last run. They even found a couple of tracheostomy tubes, but let's hope we'll never need those, right?"

"Right."

He refrains from cringing at the thought of a piece of plastic sticking out of his throat and tries not to gag as the memory of the harsh pain that came with ripping out his nasal cannula after he woke up from his coma occupies his mind. He blinks with confusion when Denise reaches into the cabinet and hands him a small bottle of Protonix.

"Stabilising her metabolism is our top priority now. She needs to eat regularly, even if it's gonna be difficult at first," she explains and gestures to the pillbox, "She should take one before every meal and I want to check on her twice a week for the next month. Oh, and I want Carl to visit tomorrow. I came up with some new exercises."

Rick knows that a simple 'Thank You' will never be enough. Nevertheless, he tries to find the right words like he did when he wanted to express his appreciation towards Gabriel and was met with an understanding he still doesn't deserve – and as expected, the young doctor waves him off and tells him to go and _get his girlfriend_ , her sly grin causing him to roll his eyes and dash off to the adjacent room with the feeling of having been caught messing up his swagger.

Once again, he doesn't think about knocking and this time, he's greeted by a sight that nails him to the floor for a moment. She has already slipped into her boots and track pants – which is a good thing – and her postbag sits on her bed, and he swallows hard as a thick veil of dark lavender cotton draws itself over the enticing line of her lower back. Knitting his brows, he stares at the back of her head.

He was with her when she stroked Judith's back and told him everything: how she took out that burly walker by turning in its grip and using the momentum to cut off its skullcap, that she spotted another, much bigger herd emerging from the hazy depths of the forest, and why she decided to lure them away on her own despite hearing him scream her name over and over and over again, and he was too out of it to fight his tears, too tired, and too thankful for having her back.

Around midnight, she asked about Carl and started to cry when he told her about Ron and the gun, and they went on to trade stories about bloodshed and taking shelter in a crowd of roamers, about dinner parties and condemned drug stores. He learned that the only time she came across other people ended with her sneaking out of a motel near Lynchburg while a group of men vandalised the lobby with prise bars and baseball bats, and he learned that it wasn't the hunger that nearly killed her.

He couldn't stop the past from seeping out of his mouth that night, both eager for and fearful of her judgement. He confessed taking Alexandria by force and publicly executing Dr Anderson like a cold-blooded hangman, and of course she rewarded him and his compulsive need to be honest with her when she told him that she would've fought his paranoid obstinacy with solid reason, proving once again that her firm belief in progression and diplomacy is what makes her a better leader than him.

"You ready to leave?"

She turns around and he would feel like an intruder if it wasn't for the way she tilts her head. Some of her braids fall against her clavicle and he feels like he's watching some rare natural phenomenon. She must've lost her headband on the road and he's determined to find her a new one if she wants him to. She straps on her bag and reaches for her sword.

"I thought I was the only person left," there's a slight tremble in her voice that reminds him of the time she asked him to give Washington a shot, "It wasn't something I hadn't felt before, you know? I thought I was still used to it because I felt it all the time until I found Andrea, and I think letting go of it became a lot easier after you allowed me to stay at the prison."

The muscles in his jaw tense up.

He was an asshole back then.

"Denise said it could take me a while to let go of it this time, so if you –"

"I don't," he blurts out automatically because he knows what she was about to say and he doesn't want her to feel like she owes him an explanation, "Maggie was planning a party, but I told her to wait, and she understands. We all understand," he pauses and remembers her looking both happy and visibly uncomfortable when the whole group sans Carl gathered around her bed to bombard her with questions – how did she survive? where did she go? – and to tell her stories of their own – Noah's fate, Glenn and Maggie's baby, and plain community gossip provided by Abraham and Eugene, "Daryl's on guard duty, so it's just gonna be us – it's just gonna be you, Carl, Judith, and me tonight. We could have dinner... if – if that's alright with you?"

He tries not to sound like he's pleading, but his voice betrays him. He sounds just like he's supposed to sound: cautious and agitated, hopeful and insecure. Asking her to stay with him, Daryl, and the kids – at least until she has fully recovered – had been a no-brainer despite nervousness clasping and jamming his ribcage as he finally managed to utter out the question after her third night at the infirmary.

"It's more than alright," she says softly and all his tension melts away when he takes her hand; she huffs out a small laugh, lightly tapping at the inside side of his wrist, "Lead the way, Deputy."

He tightens his grip and drags his thumb along her knuckles. She has no idea how much she really means to him. She has no idea that most of the time, her mere presence is enough to shake him out of his self-destructive frenzy. She has no idea that she's the strongest, bravest, most inspiring person he has ever met, and she has no idea that he can't believe that there used to be a time when he didn't need her to feel alive.

.

.

.

She doesn't give Carl a chance to explain himself, and watching them hold each other in a tender embrace with Judith huddled up in-between makes fighting the urge to join them even harder, but he stays put because it's _their_ moment, and he doesn't intervene when Carl tugs at her arm to give her a tour of the house.

Sponging off the bowls and plates, he can't stop feasting on the sweet silence that’s floating through his house tonight. Dinner has been a success and for the first time since he set foot in Alexandria, there's something close to normalcy permeating the air, and he can taste it, he can feel it settle on his tongue and trickle down his gullet. It has the texture of blossom honey and it's treacly, it's viscid, it effortlessly attenuates the sickening flavour of grief and rancour that used to haunt him over the past weeks.

"You need help with anything?"He turns away from the sink and finds her standing in the doorframe. 

"Nah, I'm good," he nods up towards the ceiling, "Carl?"

"Looking for a comic book he wants to show me. His room is a mess and Judith isn't really helping, so I decided to change into something more comfortable in the meantime," she explains.

He's glad to see that she put on the chequered pyjama pants and the white t-shirt he placed on her bed before he went off to pick her up; she seems a lot more at ease without oodles of cloth swallowing her body. Weeks of fatigue and malnutrition may have taken their toll on her body, but it doesn't change the fact that she's fucking beautiful. Her hair is tied up in a loose bun, emphasising the distinctive shape of her face, and he isn't too shocked by his sudden desire to kiss her.

"You look nice."

She raises her brows.

"C'mon," she says as she walks around the kitchen isle, grabs one of the dish towels, and leans against the counter next to him, "You rinse, I'll do the drying."

With the quiet bickering of water dribbling in the background and their hands touching occasionally, he thinks back to how he had to keep Judith from smearing mashed pears all over her face, and how he would stare at Michonne, who was sitting at the other side of the dinner table.

How he would risk a glance at her and wallow in the blissful absence of condolement and desperation, and how he wouldn't try to join her conversation with Carl because just looking at the two of them left him choking on his words and quaking with a natural affection he hasn't felt in years.

"How do you like your room?" he asks after handing her the last plate.

"It's great," she sets the plate on the counter, "And weird."

His stomach topples down like a loose weight. He was hoping that she would like it, that she would like it so much that she would never even think about moving to another house. He was hoping that she would stay – for good.

"Why's that?"

"When I was out there, I kept thinking about Aaron's photographs, but I didn't expect _this_ ," she explains, encasing the entirety of Alexandria with a twist of her hand, "I didn't expect big houses, running water and electricity, and I sure as hell didn't expect to get excited about something as mundane as doing the dishes," she says lightly, but her eyes are brimming with uncertainty and he can't stand it; he wants to reach out and kiss it better, "Was it weird for you when you got here?"

"Weird doesn't even begin to describe it. I was convinced that this place would kill me."

"But it didn't," she says matter-of-factly, almost as if she's daring him to contradict her statement, "It didn't kill you because you're still here. You know that, don't you?"

He cracks a smile.

He had to hear _her_ say it.

He had to hear her saying it because she, along with his kids, has always been able to bring him back from his unintentional detours through dark valleys of distrust and desolation. Too often, others had failed and let the force of his madness break them into pieces.

But Her, Carl and Judith – _they_ make it real because they're more than family. They're a part of him. They're his – _entirely and irrevocably his_ – and he would kill for them, he would die for them, he would do terrible, unspeakable things to keep them safe.

"Yeah, I know that now."

"Good."

She dries her hands and passes the dish towel to him. It's a small, meaningless gesture that both scares and gratifies him, and he can't stop looking at her. Not when she's so close to him, so real and so alive. She cocks her head, her eyes open and vulnerable and almost as bright and full of hope as they used to be.

"And now?" she asks, "What is this place now?"

"It's home."

The certainty in his voice startles them both. It's the truth, though: this place _is_ his home and he's not sure how he's supposed to tell her that it wouldn't be if he hadn't found her in the woods again. He's not sure how he's supposed to tell her that she's his future without overwhelming her. He's not sure how he's supposed to tell her that he wants all of her when she's still in recovery, when she isn't ready yet, when there's even the slightest possibility that she could mistake his words for an utterance born out of relief.

He tries to remember when it all began. When did he first look at her and started to see more? Did it happen when they still had the prison? When she came back from one of her runs, worried and disenchanted because the Governor was still out there? Did it happen on the road? When he saw her standing on the porch, shaking with exhaustion and laughing through her tears? Did it happen after Terminus? When she joined him and Judith on the church floor with silent glee illuminating her face? Or did it happen when they learned about Alexandria? When she was on the verge of fighting him in order to get their people to a safe place?

He takes a deep breath.

It doesn't matter.

What matters is her proximity and the way she looks at him. What matters is the way his blood begins to simmer under his skin. What matters is the fact that even if he doesn't tell her tonight, she's still going to be here tomorrow. What matters is the fact that she's still with him.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"How do you know?"

"I just do," he replies a bit hoarsely and it's like he's on autopilot when he approaches her and moulds his hand into the curve of her waist, his fears and reservations crumbling away like some loose crust that used to cover burnt soil for decades and finally gives way for young trees to burst the surface and new life to grow where death and squalor used to castigate the land.

_Things can break, but they can still grow. These little bristles, they'll take root and we'll have a whole new plant._   
Hershel's words have never held more truth than in this moment.

With his heart bursting with excitement, his insides freezing in panic, and his mind screaming at him to pull away, he presses his lips against the corner of her mouth, barely holding back a sigh and letting his eyes fall shut as 2.5 seconds turn into a lifetime. He doesn't know how to deal with the softness of her skin, her lovely scent or the pleasant warmth that curls and coils in his stomach like a rattlesnake.

Fully aware of his time running out, he moves on to her cheek and then her temple, wondering if his beard still upsets her and wondering when the wondering will end. And he's a complete mess: he has no idea what he is doing, he doesn't know how to stop, and for once, he's totally okay with it because this is real, this is _good_ , this is what he was looking for and he finally –

" _Found it!_ " Carl hollers from the upper floor, "You're gonna love this one!"

Hearing his teenage son plodding down the stairs at a too smart pace, Rick forces himself to break away with a small grin and several parts of his body still at war with each other. She stares at him, at least not visually appalled by his actions, and he lets his hand slide down to her hip, giving it a faint squeeze.

With a smile that can only be described as bashful, she bows her head and playfully nudges his shoulder on her way to the living room.

.

.

.

Hours later he's lying in his bed, his eyes fixed at the ceiling, and he’s enthralled by the tiny rift that hovers above him like a grotesque crib mobile. They spent the whole evening at the foot of the couch talking about everything and nothing: her – cross-legged with Judith settled comfortably in her lap – Carl – stretched out beside the coffee table like a lazy cat – and him – trying to stay in the present even though his life would flash before his eyes.

He smiled then because he didn't see the past. He saw the future, the good and the bad things: chaos seizing the reins again and unleashing a dark succession of forlorn battles, and his family growing and expanding despite the losses they'll be forced to face eventually.

He got glimpses of all the things he hasn't done yet, all the experiences he hasn't made yet – with his people, his children, and Michonne – and now he's impatient, he's fevered, he's longing to fast forward and finally get there, he's longing to get to that place where Carl has become a young man and where Judith keeps waddling through her tender years without being exposed to starvation and cruelty.

And he's longing for _her_ : ruthless and cunning whenever someone tries to threaten her or the people she considers family, tough and willing to consult him whenever he's struggling to lead. She's there, cold and dismissive when they fight about stupid things, calm and so much wiser than him when they fight about important things, and she's there, writhing and panting and gleaming with love when he sinks into her and drops his head to her shoulder, begging her to cage him and returning the favour without hesitation.

She's there when he pulls her even closer and starts to move inside her, dumbstruck by her warmth and utterly entranced by her silent cries and her arms and thighs holding him in place, keeping him from falling apart too soon with a bruising force that dilutes his composure and makes him sing.

"You okay?"

His own gasp snaps him out of his reverie and his breath halts and jerks in his throat when he turns to his side. It's past midnight, but his eyes have long adjusted to the soothing darkness. He meets her gaze, he loses his balance, and then he's falling.

He's falling into the bottomless pits of her glittering orbs until he gets to a point where gravity becomes irrelevant, where he feels like he's peering through a spyhole, unsure if he's watching someone standing on the outside or if _he's_ the one who's being watched.

"Rick?"

Worry lingers in her voice and he's about to ask her how she got here when he remembers that he was reluctant to clock off, that he followed her to her room and stumbled over his words as he asked her to stay with him tonight, and now they're here: hidden under the covers and unable to find sleep.

"I don't know."

He's happy, undeniably and unbelievably happy because they're lying next to each other, because her hand is nestled in the space between them, and because – even though they're both dressed, even though they're barely touching – he has never felt closer to her.

He knows, however, that being okay would feel a lot different. It wouldn't feel like there's still some dark cloud looming above their heads. He's happy and grateful, but he's not sure if he's okay.

"Me neither," she says, exhaling a deep sigh that's weighted down with weariness and something he can't quite decipher, "I _should_ be okay because I thought I'd never see any of you again, but I – I just can't tell if I am right now."

She tries to smile like she did on that first morning at the infirmary, and he covers her fingers with his palm when a single tear breaks away from the inner corner of her eye and pools in the valley of her lacrimal bone before it jumps over the bridge of her nose and ends up dashing against the pillowcase.

Everything about her puts him into a trance and inveigles him to get lost in detail, to soak in her enigmatic beauty and to forget about the fact that this world has become an ugly place. It makes him want to roll around her like a stingray rolls around the slate grey floor of the ocean, whirling up slush and dust and tiny grains of sand that float up and down in slow motion, and he's so ensnared by her that he almost doesn't hear her when she takes a gulp of air and speaks again.

"I meant it when I said that I didn't regret it. I didn't regret leaving you behind and I would do it again – _any time_ – because Carl and Judith will _always_ need you. I did it because –"

"You're their mother," the words leave his lips and he knows it's true, he _knows_ it and he strives against the lump that's threatening to burst his throat and spill all his secrets, "It's – it's what I want you to be."

Her eyes grow wide and he's watching as they glaze over with shock, grief, panic, and in the end, raw gratitude. Another tear expires on the soft and pristine planes of cornsilk-coloured cotton. He didn't intend to go like a bull at the gate, he didn't want to make her cry, and for a second or so, he's more than sure that all he ever does is making her miserable, but he can't lie to her either.

He can _never_ lie to her. The sheer thought of it fills him with the pressing urge to cut out his tongue and choke on his blood.

"God," she manages before she breaks into a small spurt of sobs, prompting him to inch a little closer, to invade her personal space and cup her cheek, "G-God I want that, too."

He doesn't say a thing.

"I want it so much."

His eyes well up as he leans in to kiss her and it's better, it's so much better than all the kisses they used to share in his dreams. He moves his lips against hers, determined to eat up her exhaustion, her fear, and her tendency to sell herself short.

She responds when she shudders and raises against him and splays her hand over his chest as if to protect what's in there. The salt of their tears lingers between them, it binds them, it refines all the ties that twine them, and it compels him to botanise this moment and shove it between his ribs, so that no-one will ever find it and take it away from him.

He reaches down, wraps his hand around the hollow of her knee, and pulls until she's flush against him while his other hand finds its way home below her shoulder blades. With a slight swivel of her hips, she kicks off an avalanche of greed that detonates at the crown of his head, rolls down his spine and ends up wreaking havoc at the base of his tailbone. He goes blind with fervour when she draws back and forks her hand through his hair, and he can't help but moan when she curls around him, bringing her lips to his forehead and smiling against his skin.

"We're gonna be okay."

She's right, even though there's still so much to talk about: André, what he can do to help her get through the aftermath of her loneliness, how he can make things easier for her, how he can take care of her, and – most of all – the fact that he's falling for her, that he started falling for her long before they got separated, and that he can't lose her again.

It's going to be difficult, _painful_ even because sometimes they're too alike – they're too reticent, too proud to rely on others, too keen on playing a lone hand all the time – but they're here, they're alive, and they're going to win. He's going to make sure of that.

"We're gonna be okay," he vows, dog-tired and winded and completely in love as he hides his face in the crook of her neck, drapes his arm over her waist, and lets himself get lulled to sleep by the beautiful, grounding sound of life surging through her body.


End file.
